Moving On
by Jack-1977
Summary: Alternate take on that terrible ending of Bullet Train.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **_Alternate take on the last couple of scenes in Bullet Train. This was inspired by something **Crumby** said to me._

# # #

Screaming.

All he could hear was screaming.

A high-pitched, desperate, wailing scream that he so badly wanted to let out, as her efforts to move towards the door – towards him – began to fail.

But he couldn't.

Whatever words Casey were saying next to him passed idly through.

Seeing her crumpled, on the ground, giving in to the poison, her eyes slowly falling out of recognition, out of comprehension, he couldn't move.

But Quinn could.

Through the glass panel, he could see him back up against the wall panel, playing with the controls.

Quinn smiled.

_The train rattled loudly._

_No._

Quinn was trying to detach the train. He was trying to cut them off! He knew she had the Intersect; he was trying to take _her_.

"No!" Chuck screamed, slamming his fist into glass. He was trying to take everything. He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't. She needed the suppression device! "No! Stop!"

But Quinn didn't stop, and the train rattled further.

Then he had Casey's gun in his hand was unloading the entire magazine into the glass, only it didn't break. It didn't even crack. Chuck barely heard the ear-piercing sounds reverberate through the air.

Everything was just background. All he could see was her, looking up at him through the glass on her door.

Pleading.

Going.

Fading.

The train shook again, and he could feel the carriages start to uncouple.

_I love you_, he mouthed. He mouthed it over and over again. She needed to hear him say it.

He saw her open her mouth, to try and form the words, but her eyes were drifting, losing the battle to stay conscious.

_I…_

_Love…_

…

And then she was gone.

Sarah was gone.

And so was he.

# # #

Panic.

All she could was feel was panic.

Panic that she was fading. Panic for what she'd lost already. Panic for what she still had to lose.

Panic for him.

She didn't try and fight as they strapped her to the chair. Whatever drugs they'd used on her hadn't fully left her system yet, and everything still felt blurry. She knew what she had to do. She needed to focus, to remain calm – to _not_ get emotional, as he had told her. She couldn't use the Intersect. She couldn't risk it.

She couldn't.

They would have to save her_. He _would have to save her. He could come. He always came.

Then Quinn showed her the flash cards; the cards that would trigger the Intersect.

The cards that would supress her memories.

The cards that would take away her.

The cards that would take away him.

Then she panicked.

Her arms and legs tried to go everywhere at once, as much as the restrains would allow, and the guards had to restrain her.

Quinn just smiled.

That didn't stop her; she forced her eyes shut and looked away.

She wouldn't look. She wouldn't!

She felt fingers force her eyes back open, plastic devices put there to stop her from blinking, and her head was turned back towards Quinn.

"Please…"

He just kept smiling and held up the first flash card.

Pain erupted in her head and she felt her eyes roll back, like a million needs all coming her at once…

_They were walking_ _out of a church. They. Her and him. It was their wedding._

And then the needles were back and she couldn't remember! She couldn't remember!

Quinn held up another flash card and she felt her body spasm back against the chair as her eyes rolled once again.

_They were at the docks. She could feel him against her. His face. His breath_. _His kiss._

Pain clouded her vision again and she slowly sunk into the precipice of memory as Quinn continued to show her the cards.

Wetness was marking her cheeks as everything that was her started to go and she tried to cling on.

To cling on.

To him.

To the one she loved.

To Chuck.

_Who?_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** _Part II. Blame_ _**Crumby**. __That seems to be the fashion these days._

# # #

When she awoke everything was warm and soft.

She opened her eyes to green walls.

The room she was in looked like a hotel, but it was unfamiliar.

She struggled to sit up on the bed. Her head was pounding and everything was sore but she wasn't sure why. She looked down at herself; she was dressed in all black. Her sleeves were slightly dusty.

There was a gun on the bed.

When she heard the knock on the door, she reached for it instinctively.

Cautiously, she approached, but the man at the door didn't react to the gun when she opened it.

Instead, he just smiled.

"Who are you?" she said, holding the gun up.

His smile faded, still there, but with a sadness that hadn't been there previously.

"That's not really important," he said. "The real question is who are _you_?"

She took a step backwards, slightly taken aback by the question, the gun falling to side.

"Sarah," she answered, after thinking about it. "I'm Sarah."

The man nodded, seemingly reassured. "Can I come in, Sarah?" he asked.

She looked him up and down; he didn't look threatening, despite his height. He was wearing a black jacket, like hers, crumpled and dusty. His curly hair was dishevelled, and despite the sadness in his smile, his brown eyes were still bright.

It was like he was happy to see her.

She stepped back from the door, allowing him into the room, and watched as moved past her, hand pocketed and head moving from side to side as he looked around. He almost like he knew the place.

"Was there something you wanted?" she asked, suddenly very conscious that she had no idea who this man was.

He turned around and nodded, looking at her with a certainly sense of finality. "Yes, I suppose," he said after a while. "Why don't you sit down?"

He gestured the double bed in the centre of the room before sitting down on it, next to her suitcase.

She assumed it was hers anyway.

She couldn't remember.

She hesitated, before moving over and matching his position next to him, still keeping her distance.

And her gun.

She looked over at him again. Despite his apparently comfort in the room – and around her – he still looked lost, distant even. She felt an incessant need to comfort him.

She didn't understand.

"Who _are_ you?" she asked again, only softer. "Why can't I remember?"

The man lifted his hand as if to reach over to her, but he stopped when she flinched.

"I don't know," he said with a shrug.

"What? How can you not know?"

"I just don't," he repeated.

Sarah pushed herself back on the bed, putting some distance between them so she could raise the gun again.

"You're lying. Why are you really here?"

Again, the man didn't react to her gun. "I'm not lying, Sarah. I came here to see you. I came here because I was hoping you could help me remember."

_But…_

He was the one who was here! How could _he_ not remember?

She scooted up on her knees so she could face him and dropped the gun on the bed.

"How could _I_ help you remember?" she asked.

He turned his head to look up at her – really look at her, through all the tiredness and soreness and doubt she carried, to just look at her. "By remembering yourself."

"I _can't_ do that," she said, moving closer to him, shuffling across the bed. "I don't know how."

The smile he gave her made her catch her breath. "Yes, you do."

She didn't know what he meant, but she continued to move closer to him, into his space. He couldn't help herself.

"But what if I don't what don't to?" She said, looking down at his jacket.

"Then that's okay, too."

She raised her head to meet his gaze, and for the first time since she'd met him, he looked familiar. Tentatively reaching over, she cupped his face with her palms, exploring how it felt. His eyes fell softly closed, as he revelled at the touch.

She suddenly felt embarrassed, unsure of what she was doing. She needed to hide. Now.

_She was scared._

Pulling herself into his arms was the nearest thing, that's what she told herself. It was the best place to hide. It was warm and soft and she buried her head into his jacket. He reacted as if it was the most natural thing in the world and held her there.

"Am I dead?" she whispered. "Is this what it's like to be dead?"

He slowly started to rock her back and forth, and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the answer, hiding herself in his smell. "You're not dead," he said into her ear finally. "Far from it."

"Then why are you here?" she asked again.

"Because I want you to help me remember."

"Tell me how," she said desperately. "Please."

"You need to want to," he whispered, as if it was the most complicated thing in the world. "You need to open your eyes. You need to let me in. You need to wake up, Sarah."

She froze against him and he stopped rocking her.

"Chuck…?" she asked.

Only he didn't answer.

A voice was calling her, a distant voice. It sounded like him, only it wasn't the man who was holding her.

It was far and sounded desperate.

"You need to go now, Sarah," Chuck said in her ear.

And everything fell into haze.

# # #


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **_Thanks to __**Nysa**__ for giving this the once over. She's aces._

**Moving On**

**Chapter Three**

Sarah woke up abruptly.

Opening her eyes, she could see that she'd jerked herself upwards. Her heart was racing in the silence, pounding against her chest in shock after having been lulled into a false sense of security by her unconscious self.

The dream was still fresh on her mind, so much so that even with her eyes open she could almost see his face against the cold, empty backdrop of the motel room. Closing her eyes, she took several moments to breathe deeply, before wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

The dream was turning into a recurring one, one she couldn't seem to shake. It wasn't always him who came to visit her in the hotel room, though. Sometimes it was Quinn, closer to what had actually played out, there to _recruit_ her. Worse, sometimes it was him. He hadn't come there to help her. He'd come to kill her.

Those were him times she'd woken up crying.

Not tonight, though. Tonight she was just cold.

Collapsing back against the hard bed, she drew the comforter closer to her and prayed for the sleep she knew would never come.

# # #

_Six Months Earlier_

When Sarah awoke, everything was warm and soft.

She opened her eyes to green walls, having to blink several times before they fully came into focus.

The room she was in looked like a hotel, but it was unfamiliar. She was lying on a bed, on top of the slightly dishevelled sheets that had moulded to her shape. Looking down at herself, she could see she was clad only in light a blue tank top and panties, which left her feeling exposed. A robe lay next to her and an open suitcase beyond that.

Again, both were unfamiliar.

A knocking at the door caused her to sit up. She quickly drew the robe around her, covering up, and pushed herself off the bed. Almost instinctively, she picked up the Smith & Wesson that was lying in the suitcase and clicked off the safety, before cautiously approaching the door.

She didn't recognise the man for whom she opened the door.

He didn't seem surprised to have a gun in his face.

"Ah, Agent Walker," he greeted through a salt and pepper beard. "Good morning."

She guessed him to be in his late forties. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit and tie that smacked of Agency. She didn't lower the gun.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The man frowned. "You mean you don't remember?"

She shook her head.

"I'm Nicolas Quinn. Your handler."

"My handler?" she repeated, lowering the gun slightly. "Since when do I have a handler?"

He smiled at her, which made her want to look away. "For this mission, my dear, you do."

"Mission?" she asked, clenching her jaw. "Is that why I can't…why I can't remember?"

Quinn grimaced. "Perhaps, it would be best if I came in" he said, taking a step forward, the creasing in his suit revealing a shoulder holster as he did so.

Sarah didn't budge. She didn't know this man. "I want to talk to my partner," she said firmly. "I want to talk to Bryce."

"I'm sorry, Sarah," Quinn said, looking awkward, "but Bryce Larkin is dead. He has been for nearly three years now."

Her throat suddenly tightened. "Then Graham. Let me speak to Director Graham."

"Dead, too, I'm afraid."

Sarah took a couple of steps back, the gun suddenly heavy in her hands. "How?" she asked.

"If you'll permit me," Quinn said, drawing something slowly from his jacket pocket, "I'll explain."

What he pulled out was a picture, passing it over to her. She took it warily, letting her eyes scan it over.

It was a headshot. The man in it was around thirty with dark hair that had been cut short and matching dark eyes. He wasn't conventionally handsome, but not unpleasant to look at, by any means. He, too, was dressed in a suit, a well-fitted one. Despite his clothes, though, he didn't look like the Agency type. He had a kind face.

The name above the picture read "Chuck Bartowski."

She looked up from the photo. "Who is he?"

"He's the man responsible for the deaths of Bryce Larkin and Director Graham – as well as numerous other agents over the years."

Sarah tightened the grip on her gun. "What's he got to do with me?"

"He's also your husband."

"My _husband_?" she repeated, daring to blink.

"You've been undercover for the last five years posing as his girlfriend – marrying last year, actually – as part of a wider operation to take down him, his company, and his associates."

_Five years._

She'd been undercover for five years? That didn't make any sense. A cover girlfriend for five years? And she couldn't remember any of it…

"Why can't I remember?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at Quinn. "What happened to me?"

Quinn shrugged. "It's complicated."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He smiled again. "Take it easy, Sarah. Give me some time and I'll explain."

She ignored him. "I want to see the reports."

"What reports?" Quinn asked, looking suddenly unnerved.

"The reports into their deaths – Bryce and Graham's. I want to know how they died."

"I just told you," he said, gesturing to the photo in her hand. "Bartowski was responsible."

"I'd still like to see those reports."

"That's going to take some time," Quinn said, before raising his arms in a pacifying gesture. "Now, if you'll just put the gun down, I can explain everything."

Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. "I don't know you. I don't want you to explain everything," she said quietly. "I want to be able to read the report into how my partner died. If you were really my handler, you'd be able to get them for me."

It was then that Quinn moved.

She'd been waiting for it.

His right hand had dived for his shoulder holster, but it never got there. Despite being bare foot, she still managed to land a powerful high-kick to his face, spinning him around. Still holding the gun, she grabbed Quinn by the tie and delivered a powerful fist to his face with her free hand. She quickly emptied the shoulder holster of its gun and stepped back from Quinn's unconscious form, feeling all too naked to her situation.

Whoever this Quinn was, he hadn't been telling her the truth. She was sure of that. One thing was nearly certain, however: Quinn probably wasn't alone.

Sarah took a deep breath.

She needed to get out of here. Fast. If Bryce and Graham really were dead, then her list of allies in the Agency was thin, and until she knew more, she couldn't trust anybody. There was no way in hell she was going to trust Nicolas Quinn.

She didn't even know what _year_ it was.

She couldn't remember.

Spinning around, she quickly pulled a pair of jeans and a shirt out of the suitcase – she assumed it was hers – and slipped off the robe, changing into them. She pushed her feet into the pair of black boots that were by the side of the bed, before stuffing her Smith & Wesson into her pants.

Someone screamed from behind her.

Sarah whipped around on her heel – knocking something off the nightstand in the process – to see a shocked looking maid standing in the open doorway. Her eyes were moving between Sarah and the unconscious Quinn on the floor.

"Wait—"

But the maid had already run, screaming down the corridor. Sarah cursed, grabbing a dark jacket out of the suitcase, completing her ensemble. In addition to Quinn's associates, hotel security and the police would likely be here soon, too.

She was nearly at the door when something caught her eye. Something on the nightstand, which had been hidden under the lamp she'd knocked over. It was another photo, worn around the edges. The same man who was in Quinn's photo was in it, only his hair was longer and he looked more relaxed in his casual wear. And he wasn't alone.

She was in it, too, smiling happily at the camera. Not a look she was used to seeing on her face. His arms were draped loosely around her waist, his head resting comfortably on her shoulder.

It took her a couple of seconds to take the photo in. Momentarily, she thought back to Quinn's words – her relationship to Bartowski was a _cover _– before dropping that line of thought. This man, Chuck, didn't just look like an assignment to her. Her expression in the photo wasn't fake.

Sounds of shouting from down the corridor brought her back to reality.

She quickly pocketed the photo, and the one Quinn had given her, before turning out the door.

And running.

# # #

It took her several hours before she finally gave up on sleep.

Her dreams were just too hard to shake. They screamed loudly at her against the silence. It was almost as loud as her guilt.

In the six months since she'd fled Quinn and the hotel room, she'd learnt many things – her old, backdoor clearance to the CIA mainframe had seen to that. Quinn had been right about Bryce and Graham. Chuck Bartowski, however, had not been responsible, she'd learnt. What was more shocking was reading the reports on Chuck over the years, and her relationship to him… Their story. Up until she'd begun to read the reports, the flashes of memory and feelings that had started to return had been confusing as hell, and it was only now, more recently, after many agonising nights, that she'd started to understand.

She had loved him.

And she had fled.

Not knowing who to trust in the CIA had left her alone. Quinn's status as a _former_ agent had left her with little confidence in the Agency. Saying his name alone now made her angry, now that she knew what he'd done to her. What he'd taken from her…

She idly started to roll her thumb and forefinger across her empty ring finger. The indentation that had been there had faded considerably and was now barely visible. She hadn't worn his rin long enough for the mark to be permanent.

_Dammit_, she inwardly cursed, feeling the sadness start to return.

Sarah pushed the covers across her face, wiping away the wetness on her cheek. As she did, she turned and looked out the window. It was still dark outside. She guessed it wouldn't be light yet for a couple of hours. She glanced at the disposable cell phone next to her bed, a familiar urging overcoming her.

Picking it up, she dialled a number and pressed it to her ear.

It rung seven times before a shaky voice answered. "H-hello?"

Her voice was suddenly caught in her throat.

"Hello?" the voice said again, causing her to breathe deeper into the phone.

She still didn't say anything. He sounded tired.

There was a pause and she heard take a sharp breath. "S-Sarah?" he said, suddenly sounding wide awake. "It's you, isn't it?"

Sarah drew the comforter tighter around her, pulling the phone closer to her ear, before letting out a choked sob. It hurt to hear Chuck say her name.

"It's okay," Chuck said quickly. "It's okay. You don't have to talk, not if you don't want to."

Only she did want to; she wanted to talk to him so badly.

When she didn't respond, Chuck continued to speak. "It was you before, wasn't it? The last two times, I mean. I told Casey and Morgan, only they didn't believe me. They said I was wishing…that I was probably dreaming. I don't know, maybe I was. But this is real. It's really you…"

The longing in his words brought more moisture to her eyes causing more guilt to pang through her. The previous two times she had woken him up in the middle of the night, he'd barely been able to say her name. This was the longest she had heard him speak in six months. It felt like an eternity.

"I…" Chuck's words were starting to stutter. "They told me you were dead… But I couldn't… And then we found Qui – _him_, and he said you'd escaped, that you were alive…"

She was openly weeping now and another sob must have told Chuck of this, for his tone suddenly changed.

"I'm sorry, Sarah," he said, his own voice cracking slightly. "Baby, I'm sorry. Please don't cry. Would, um… would you like it if I just talked? You know, just talked for a little while. Told you about my day, about Ellie and Morgan and Casey and little baby Clara, who really isn't little any more…"

Chuck must have heard her nod somehow through the silence, for he quickly cleared his throat and start to talk.

"I'm, um, I saw Alex today for the first time in a while. She and Morgan, they're engaged now and…"

The bed suddenly felt a lot more comfortable as Sarah relaxed down into it, listening to the sound of his voice…


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **_Thanks to __**Nysa**__ for beta'ing this for me. Hanky._

**Moving On **

**Chapter Four**

Sarah wasn't really all that surprised when he found her. Looking back, in the early days she had been less than careful – not checking the rear-view mirror often enough, using an out-of-date encryption programme – and was only a matter of time before someone managed to track her down.

It was early morning when she heard the knock on the door to her motel room in Big Pine. She'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for several hours, replaying the sound of his voice – his words – over and over in her mind. The sound of the knocking jolted her awake and sent a shiver of panic running down her spine. Kicking the covers back, she quickly pulled her jeans over her bare legs and reached for the gun under her pillow. It was too early for housekeeping, she thought. And they would have announced themselves.

Her naked feet barely made a sound against the carpet as she crept towards the door.

She left the chain on.

"Morning, Sunshine," John Casey said through the gap when she opened the door, not reacting at all to the gun being pointed at him.

"C-Casey," she stammered, relief coursing through her as hope, at the same time, was drained.

Casey eyed her up and down through in the crevice. "Rough night?" he asked casually, nothing in his voice giving away that they hadn't seen one another for nearly six months.

"Of sorts," she said, brushing the question aside. "How did you…?"

Casey raised a brow. "You didn't really think that no-one would notice when you accessed five years' worth of Intersect files from the CIA servers, did you?"

Sarah let the gun fall to her side and she awkwardly swallowed.

"Only myself and Beckman know," Casey said quietly. "We thought it was best that way."

She nodded, taking a steadying breath.

"Can I come in?" he asked, looking at the chain. "We need to talk."

Sarah glanced out behind her former partner and into the empty parking lot behind. Nothing appeared particularly out of the ordinary, aside from the Casey's presence, of course.

"I'm alone," he said, as if sensing her nervousness.

She continued to stare at him for the moment before closing the door and releasing the chain. Opening the door, she took a couple of steps back, letting the large man walk into the room. Gone was the slight swagger in his step she remembered, or thought she remembered; the one that seemed to exude his sheer physical presence. Instead, he held himself slightly hunched, making him looking smaller than he actually was. He was dressed in a pastel coloured shirt, which seemed odd on him, but she let it pass. She eyed his thumbs, which were tucked into his belt.

"Are you carrying?"

Casey looked at her, puzzled. "I didn't come here to fight you, Walker."

"You always have a gun," she said bluntly, aware of her own firearm held loosely at her side.

"Yes, I do," Casey said, grinning wolfishly. "You want it?"

She thought about for a moment. Even though her memory was still vague, she didn't feel threatened by Casey. Chuck, too, had sounded like he had nothing but admiration and respect for the man when he'd talked to her on the phone about him. Nevertheless, Quinn had completely shaken her ability to believe in anyone other than herself…

"That's okay," she said, somewhat wearily. "Keep it."

Casey nodded an acknowledgement, his eyes surveying the motel room, ghosting over the single bag she kept on the table next to the bed. She travelled light.

"You said we needed to talk," she said, drawing his attention away from her few meagre possessions. The photos weren't visible, thankfully. Those were hidden under her pillow. Still, she didn't want him analysing her.

"How much do you remember?" Casey asked, turning back to her.

Enough to know she shouldn't be here was her immediate thought. Her mind was nowhere near close to remembering everything she'd had, but she knew enough.

"Some," she said simply. It was the truth.

Casey grimaced, pausing, and continued to look at her, somewhat more awkwardly. "We caught him," he said finally.

"What?" she asked, feeling her whole body perk up.

"Quinn. We caught him. I figured you should know."

_Quinn_, her mind repeated. She already knew this, of course, from what Chuck had told her on the phone, but that didn't stop the anger starting to boil within her at hearing the name. Quinn, the man who had taken everything from her.

"When?" she asked, barely able to repress a snarl. Chuck hadn't given her details.

"A few weeks ago," Casey said. "It turns out Quinn wasn't able to create a complete Intersect with what was in your head alone. His network quickly fell apart after he wasn't able to provide the other parts. It was probably one of his backers who tipped us off to his location."

Sarah turned to look out the window, taking deep breaths, the mountains in the distance doing little to calm her. "He's in jail?"

"He's a traitor to this country and a disgrace to the CIA. Beckman wants him gone."

Gone.

Sarah knew what that meant. Chuck hadn't told her that. Chuck probably didn't know. It wasn't something he would approve and, knowing this, Casey had probably withheld it from him.

She did remember that Chuck could be naïve sometimes.

Quinn deserved worse.

Clenching her jaw, she spun around to see Casey's stony expression. "You're the one going to do it," she stated.

Casey didn't answer her directly.

"He's temporarily being held at a CIA black site," he said instead. "Officially, no-one knows we have him."

"Why are you telling me this, Casey?" she asked as her patience started to wear thin. She told herself it was the sleep deprivation. "Why are you even here?"

"Because it's been six months." he answered. "And because you deserve to know."

Sarah sank down on the bed, dropping the gun on the mattress as she felt her eyes start to well. She didn't deserve anything. She was almost as guilty as Quinn in this matter. She should have gone back when she first started to remember.

Casey moved a couple of steps closer to her, stopping just out of her reach.

"How is he?" she asked quietly, not daring to look up.

Casey's response wasn't immediate. "Better," he said eventually, "now that he knows you're alive."

She pulled her knees up to her chest as the tears began to silently fall. "I don't know how to do this," she whispered into her knees.

She felt Casey's weight on the mattress as he sat down next to her, still a considerable distance away, but close, from what she remembered by his standards. He placed a hand on her shoulder, letting it rest there.

"You will," he said simply. "You will when you're ready."

"You know I've been calling him?" she asked, tilting her head so she could see him.

"Yes," he answered, his frown lightening. "He told us not to try and trace them."

"But you did anyway?"

"Heh," Casey said, grunting. "Moron's still a moron. Doesn't know what's good for him."

Sarah gave a small, humourless laugh. "That phone was supposed to be untraceable."

"You're not that good, Walker."

"Probably not," she said soberly. "Not anymore, anyway."

Casey appeared to consider her for a moment, then shrugged, and handed her something. It was a handkerchief. She sniffed a thanks and used it to dry her eyes. She'd been doing way too much crying these days; it was something she could hardly help.

She paused. There was something about the cloth that smelled familiar, a comforting smell.

"This is Chuck's," she stated, clutching the material a little tighter.

"So it is," Casey said innocently, standing up from the bed and taking a few steps away. "Must have slipped my mind."

"Thanks," she murmured, pocketing the handkerchief.

Casey grunted. "Are you going to keep calling him?"

Sarah licked her lips. "I…I don't know," she said hesitantly, suddenly feeling powerless. "I don't know what to do…"

"Yeah," her former partner said, rolling his eyes. "Nothing's really changed then."

Sarah didn't laugh, watching as Casey moved towards the door, unsure what he meant exactly and feeling the anger start to rise again within her.

Then it occurred to her.

"Casey," she said, causing him to pause. "I want to be the one to do it."

Casey turned, raising a brow at her.

"Quinn. I want to pull the trigger."

# # #


End file.
